Crucible
by The North Wyn
Summary: Ward and Simmons are abducted. As the days stretch on, they try to keep each other alive long enough for their team to find them.


**A/N:** This one goes out to all the lovely people on Tumblr, who have really expanded my understanding of these characters; their thoughts helped inspire this fic. _  
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**Warnings:** Torture, blood, violence, guns, drowning, Ward's past is also mentioned.

* * *

The mission is a complete bust. Nothing _actually_ goes wrong on it, so Ward supposes they should feel grateful for that. It's just exhausting that this is their third false lead on Centipede in two weeks. Since Raina's and Quinn's arrests, the group as a whole had gone pretty far underground. Still every time something about Centipede came across their radar, S.H.I.E.L.D sent them after it. The team always set out with new determination, but the consequence of such enthusiasm was the keen sting of disappointment when they came up empty again.

Everyone is coping their own way, which at the moment seems to be mostly by being draped over every available piece of furniture in the common room.

"Alright," Simmons says brightly, "I'm starved. Is anyone else hungry?"

The only response she gets is noncommittal grunts from Skye and Fitz.

Simmons tries again, "Well, I'll go find us something, shall I? Does anyone want to go with me?"

This is met with even less enthusiasm than her first question. Ward feels bad for her, plus he doesn't want her wondering the town alone.

"I could use some fresh air. I'll go with you."

He is rewarded with a smile and they head off the bus together.

There is exactly one diner and one tiny convenience store in this barely-on-the-map town. He doubts the diner will let them get take-out, especially for six people, so the convenience store it is.

"Any special requests?" Jemma asks as she grabs a basket and threads her arms through the handles.

He shakes his head, distracted by the prickling sensation developing at the back of his neck. He follows her as she heads to the produce, still looking around to determine the source of his unease. He takes a look at the three other occupants. The teenage boy who didn't look up from his phone when they came in; he instantly rules him out as a threat. The man looking at canned soups towards the middle of the store. He looks like he could hold his own in a fight. He's also been studying them surreptitiously since they came in. He's definitely a possibility. Closest to them is a man who is lethargically pushing a mop across the floor. He is staring at them openly now. Ward catches a glimpse of Russian prison tattoos on his neck.

Ward takes a step closer to an oblivious Simmons and widens his feet into a defensive stance. The first man stops looking at soups and heads for them.

That can't be good. Or a coincidence.

He decides going on the offensive will give him an advantage and, hopefully, keep the men far away from Simmons. By now she has noticed his distraction. Her eyes widen as she notices the men coming for him. "Stay back," he tells her.

She backs away from him quickly. Grant rushes the man headed for him. He doesn't take the man by surprise by any means, but he manages to tackle him to the ground anyway. He doesn't even have a chance to keep him there, though, because he is instantly jumped by the second man. He rolls out from between the two of them. The three of them continue to grapple, rolling across the floor. After a few minutes, Ward manages to break free of them.

With no gun and Simmons to protect, his options are limited. They need to get out of here. Breathing heavily, he turns to look for Jemma. She is hunkered in the corner of the produce section. A look of relief crosses her face when she sees him heading for her. He beckons her to him. Once she reaches him, he takes her hand. He pulls Jemma with him through the side door...right into an alley where more men and an idling van wait. He turns to try and get them back inside, but he is met in the doorway by the men from inside the store. Someone grabs him from behind, pulling his wrists together and fastening them with a zip-tie. A hood is shoved roughly over his head. The hood is hot and heavy over his face. He continues to struggle against his captors, but there is a sudden pinch to the back of his upper arm and he feels himself go limp, everything fading to darkness.

* * *

When Ward wakes, he is on his knees, with both hands and feet tied behind him. Heavy hands on his shoulders are holding him down. He frantically seeks out Simmons. She is next to him, similarly tied. The bonds and the look of terror on her face are enough to make him see red.

He needs to get her out of here. He needs to negotiate. It's a desperate bid and he knows it won't work, but he's been physically neutralized and now all he has left is his words to keep her safe.

He turns to the men standing before him. "I'm the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She's just a scientist. She doesn't know anything. Whatever information you need, whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Just _let her go_."

The unarmed man in the forefront of the group looks at him with amusement. "No, you see, it's not actually you I need. Although, I am sure you will prove useful. No, it is the lovely young lady I need."

Jemma gasps softly.

"If you lay a hand on her-"

"Now, now, no need to get worked up, Agent Ward. I simply want to utilize her mind power. Ask her a few questions, if you will."

They both wait tensely to see where this is going.

"Extremis. What do you know about it?"

"Extremis?" Jemma echoes hollowly.

"Don't play dumb with me, Darling. It's insulting to both of our intelligences. I know you're _very_ familiar with it."

"All the fake tips," Jemma says fiercely, "It was you. _You've_ been-"

"Bringing you to me all this time? Testing you to see how much you know about Centipede and Extremis? Why yes, I was. It was rather clever of me, I thought. Wear you down while gathering intel of my own. And I've been impressed by you most of all, my dear."

The simpering tone and the look he's giving Simmons is making Ward sick.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Victor Stovell. I am a business man, you might say. But enough about _me_. I brought you here because I need you to do something for me. Make Extremis."

Jemma tilts her chin up in an attempt at defiance. To Grant, she just looks scared. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I asked nicely and it'll make me a rich man, which will make me happy. And I promise you, you want me to be a happy man."

"You're a mercenary with no morals, who intends to sell a deadly weapon to the highest bidder. Innocent people _will_ die. I won't help you." Some of her fear evaporates in her moral indignation; Ward's both impressed by her and afraid for her.

"Oh, dear, I was _so_ hoping you would be more cooperative. Well, then, we will have to persuade you. I am certain we can."

Ward sees it coming out of his peripheral vision. The punch knocks him backwards. The wind is knocked out of him, but this is hardly his first time in this situation. He's ready when they reach for him. He headbutts the man who grabs his shoulders to pull him up. The man swears loudly and drops him. Ward takes advantage of the man's surprise to get his feet the rest of the way under him and propel himself up. He is rewarded for his efforts with a fist to the mouth. Before he can recover from that, he is tackled by the men and knocked hard to the ground.

They pin him down, but still the punches keep coming.

He can dimly hear Simmons screaming at them to stop.

Soon he can't hear anything over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

The blows keep raining down until his body surrenders to sweet unconsciousness.

* * *

His head is throbbing. An attempt to move causes a spasm of pain across his chest. Someone certainly did a number on him. He's not sure how he even got to this mattress and, honestly, his memories of the last few hours (he isn't even sure _if_ it has been hours) are hazy. Someone is dabbing at his wounds. The same someone is sobbing softly. _Simmons_.

He opens his eyes, so he can see if she's hurt. A quick scan reveals nothing he can see.

"Did they hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine." She lifts the bloody papertowel she's been using to clean his wounds to his busted lip without making eye contact.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do," she sniffed. "This is all my fault. If I had just cooperated—o—or worked faster..."

He wraps his hand gently around her wrist, "Hey." He waits until she looks up at him. "It's not, ok? They-" he points to the door, "They did this, not you. Ok?" He maintains eye contact with her until she sniffs and nods. He wraps an arm tightly around her. She lays down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

She is silent for so long that he thinks she has fallen asleep. His body is screaming for him to do the same, but every instinct is working overtime, trying to keep him awake. If he relaxes, if he lets his guard down in any way—well, it could be Simmons they hurt next time, not him. And he couldn't live with that. He has to figure out a way to get them out of here.

"They're going to find us, aren't they?" Jemma suddenly whispers, "Fitz-"her voice breaks slightly-"And Coulson and May and Skye. They're out looking for us right now, aren't they?"

And he is reminded of how painfully _young_ and innocent she is. She should not be here. She was never meant to be in the field, not in any real danger. Not like this. He should have protected her. He should have fought harder. She shouldn't be here.

And he isn't sure how to answer her. Dozens of statistics that every field agent knows by heart flash through his mind—the likelihood of rescue after abduction, the decreasing chance of survival the further from the initial kidnapping, the chances of an agent succumbing to starvation or torture, the chance that the kidnappers kill the agent before an extraction team can get to them. None of them encouraging.

He doesn't want to break her spirit; if they are to have any chance of survival or escape, she'll need it. He doesn't want to give her false hope, either. That would be cruel, the kind of cruel that would kill you faster than a broken spirit.

"I know they won't stop looking." It is not an answer, but it is the truth.

He cannot see her face in the darkness and she does not reply. Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft cadence of Simmons' breathing as she gives into sleep finally.

He never falls asleep, but he still doesn't have a plan in the morning.

* * *

He is staring aimlessly at a water stain on the wall when Simmons startles awake. She sits up so fast that he gets a mouthful of hair.

He watches the realization and horror of remembering dawn on her face.

"I was hoping it was all a dream," she says, her voice thick with tears.

He squeezes her shoulder gently, because there's nothing he can say.

* * *

When they enter the room later that morning—the same strong-armed group of thugs as yesterday—he already knows what to expect. He steps between them and Simmons, just in case they get any ideas.

"So, my dear," Stovell says in a tone that makes a shiver run down Ward's spine, "What have you got planned for today?"

Jemma doesn't answer. Her jaw is set and she is trying so hard to look fierce, but her hands are shaking.

"I expect results." His men grab Ward and tie him to a chair.

"No, no, please don't." Simmons has started to cry and he hates the men more for that than for what they're about to do to him.

He looks over at her scared face and gives her the most reassuring smile he can. "It's ok, Simmons. It's ok."

Then they block his view of her and it starts.

* * *

"That's enough for today," Stovell says in a bored tone. "Although, I wouldn't quit working if I were you, my dear. Let's not drag this-"he trails a hand across Ward's bloody face, "Out any longer than necessary. I think you will find I am not the patient sort, nor do I have all the time in the world."

Over the ringing in his ears, Grant can hear the footsteps fade and the slamming of the door, and it feels like ground glass in his ear drums. Small hands brush against his wrists, struggling with the ropes binding him. It takes all his training not to shy back from them.

"Ward? Ward, can you hear me?"

He manages to grunt out a "yes" as he tries to sit up straight in the chair. There is an audible sigh of relief in response. Simmons finally succeeds in getting the ropes untied and, as he falls forward, she catches him.

"There, there, take it easy."

They walk slowly back to the mattress, with Ward keeping one hand on the wall for balance and the other on Jemma's shoulder. He and Jemma sit down on the mattress together. She lays down beside him as he stretches out.

Against his better judgment, his body gives into exhaustion, and he's asleep almost as soon as he hits the mattress.

* * *

The fact that Simmons is no longer laying beside him fills him with panic. The surge of adrenaline propels him forward and he's standing up before he notices her. She's standing in front of the desk, using the dim light from the desk lamp to continue working. He wonders if she even slept.

"Simmons."

She jumps and the papers she's been scribbling on scatter.

"Ward!"

"What are you doing?"

"Working on some calculations. I was _so_ close to an important breakthrough earlier-"

"It can wait. You need to sleep. Come on." He reaches for her.

"No!" She jerks back from him, shaking his hand off, "No, I can't. I—I can't."

He reaches for her again. "I'll protect you, I promise. Come-"

"It's not me I'm worried about!" she explodes. "If I don't finish this-"she waves her hand to indicate everything on the desk, "They are going to hurt you. They are going to _keep_ hurting you!"

He frowns. "Don't worry about me. I told you—this isn't your fault-"

"You don't get it! You don't _bloody_ get it."

He can't help being surprised by that; he doesn't think he's ever heard Jemma swear.

"I'm allowed to worry. People are allowed to worry about you, Ward. You don't have to—you don't have to bloody sacrifice yourself all the time!"

She turns her back to him then, scribbling in dark angry marks across her paper.

He just stands there and stares at her back, because, if he wasn't a sacrifice, he didn't know what he was doing here.

She doesn't speak to him for the rest of the night and he doesn't try to engage her in conversation.

It is a long, silent night, but finally, the door scratches across the floor, signaling morning, and they both jump to attention.

"Ahh," Stovell sounds so pleased with himself; it sets Ward's teeth on edge, "An early start. You _are_ enterprising. I like that."

This time Jemma does respond. She stands straight and looks the man in the eyes. "This is very delicate work. If I had a quieter environment, I might be able to progress much faster."

"Quieter," Stovell smirks, "We'll tell your boyfriend to scream quieter, shall we?"

Jemma flinches, but does not back down. "This is a cluttered work area. Perhaps if you took three—or four—of your men out? They might even serve you better, patrolling your _prison_."

"Simmons," Ward warns quietly. She is _this _close to ticking Stovell off and so far he has shown no sign of planning to hurt her. Ward intends to keep it that way.

Stovell seems to mull it over and then nods to several men, who leave the room. "Whatever the lady wants," he smirks, "The lady gets."

As the men leave, Ward sees what they mean to use on him today. The sight of the box that is the twisted sister to a polygraph machine turns his stomach. He should have known they wouldn't rely on brute force for long. He takes a deep breath and tries to steel himself. They grab him, gruff hands catching on sore areas of his body, and pull him towards the now-familiar chair. They yank his shirt off and push him down. The cold metal of the chair burns against skin that is already tingling with unpleasant anticipation. They begin applying electrodes and he forces his body to relax. His mind tortures him with a brief thought of Jemma being forced to witness this, then it starts. And as the first savage bolt of electricity charges through his body, a cry tears from his dry lips.

* * *

Every muscle hums and every inch of his body feels like it's been over-tightened.

"Ward?" Simmons whispers. He forces his eyes open. She is kneeling beside him, one hand on his arm, the other tentatively reaching up to touch his face.

He manages a shaky smile. She smiles back. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He's honestly not sure his legs will cooperate to walk, but he tries anyway. His legs buckle several times, but for one so small, she is surprisingly strong; they do not fall.

He keeps his arm around her shoulder as she helps lower him onto the mattress, so that she will lay down beside him. She curls up against him, her shoulder tucked underneath his, his arm wrapped around her back, and his hand resting on her elbow. He prefers to keep her close; that way he can make sure she's safe. They lay still for a few minutes, trying to let the stress of the day drain away. He's just about to drift off to sleep when he remembers their argument from the night before. He figures after a day of listening to him scream, he probably owes her an explanation.

"I'd rather it be me than you," he admits softly. She looks up at him in surprise.

"I don't know how to be anything else, Jemma. Once I learned I could stand between someone and the person hurting them, I've never looked back."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

* * *

When he feels the mattress shift beneath him as she gets up a few hours later, he doesn't say anything. She must feel him looking at her, though, because she whispers, "This is what I know how to do."

* * *

He alternately watches Jemma work and paces the room, trying to distract himself from wondering what _they_ plan to do today. The day before had proved that Stovell and his men were becoming more impatient. Or more sadistic. Probably both. Either way, today's going to be worse. He glances over at Jemma, working intently. _For both of them_.

His question is answered a few minutes later when Stovell and his men enter. They are carrying a large metal tub filled nearly to the brim with water and ice. Ward's heart stops. There can be only one use for that.

_A watery voice calling his name. The desperate, gargling, rattle of someone trying to keep their head above water. _

The men set down the tub and look at him. Ward tenses, preparing to fight. He won't let them do this.

_Struggling. Thrown in. Cold, filthy water filling up his lungs. Treading water until his body can no longer support him. Fighting to the top in choppy motions, sure he will die any second._

No.

_No._

The men come for him, reach out their hands to pull him under. _No._

Despite his training, fear takes over and, for the first time, he truly struggles against his tormentors. But there are four of them and after days of torture and malnourishment, he is too weak to stop them. They drag him over to the tub and force him to his knees.

Panic surges through him as they force his head into the icy water. He fights with every thing that he has. The weight pressing him into the water just gets heavier and heavier the more he struggles—to his neck, on his back and arms and legs. His throat and lungs burn as he inhales first water, then air, then water again. Over and over.

* * *

He can't breathe. His body has stopped struggling. He is floating, weightless...

* * *

"Ward! Grant! Wake up. Oh, please, wake up!"

His whole body is shaking, shuddering, fighting for air. He gasps in air, beautiful, life-giving air, burning as it fills his lungs. He blinks. Blinks again. He can make out the blurry image of Simmons leaning over him. His head and shoulders are resting in her lap. Her hands are resting on his shoulders; she must have been the one who was shaking him. He tries to sit up, but his body rejects the idea. A spasm of coughing shakes his whole body until he thinks he will pass out again. Once it passes, a pained groan slips through his lips.

"Don't try and move. Get your breath back first."

He glances up again at her face and for the first time notices a gash to her forehead that's still bleeding.

"How'd you get that?" he asks harshly.

"I tried to stop them."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"They were going to kill you! You were struggling so much and they just kept forcing you back under, without giving your body any time to compensate!"

He pats her leg in an awkward attempt at thanks. "Why did they stop?"

"I gave them what they wanted. Extremis."

He instantly feels guilty. He knows how strongly she felt about keeping it out of Stovell's hands, about the lives it might cost. He feels guilty about them, too.

"But, Ward," she whispers, "It's not viable. Not because I couldn't create it, but, because when it came down to it, I couldn't give them something that was going to hurt people. I'm sorry."

He grins. "Don't be."

Reassured, she smiles.

* * *

The tightness in his chest is finally starting to relax and he has allowed himself to fall into that peaceful state between sleeping and waking, when Jemma suddenly sits bolt upright.

"But, won't they kill us, once they find out? Oh!" She throws her hands up to cover her face. "Maybe I shouldn't have-"

He puts his hands on hers, gently pulls them away from her face, squeezes them tightly. "They were always going to kill us anyway," he says softly.

Jemma shivers.

She is far too young to die. He knows that he is very much outnumbered and that, even if he weren't already in such a weakened state, he would be very unlikely to fight them all off. Still he has to try. For Jemma's sake. Maybe he can fight hard enough to cause a distraction that would allow her to escape. It's a longshot and will require her cooperation. He waits until she looks up at him and then he holds eye contact. He's still holding her hands, so he squeezes them again.

"If you can get free, run. _Do not stop running_. Even if I'm not with you-" Jemma starts to protest-"_Even _if I can't make it out, if you have a chance, you take it. Do you understand?"

She doesn't answer.

"_Promise_ me, Jemma."

"I—I promise."

* * *

The door bangs open with such force that Jemma jumps and grabs Ward's arm. Stovell storms through the door, a look of fury on his face. Grant pushes Jemma behind him. Ward can only imagine one reason the man could be so furious and he's not going to let Stovell take it out on her.

"I had. Such. High hopes. For you." Stovell is shaking. "Such high hopes."

Jemma's grip on his arm intensifies; he can feel her tremors through her fingertips.

Stovell's fury may well be in his undoing, though. In his anger, he has come alone and unarmed. Ward carefully pulls Jemma's hand off his arm.

"Remember what I said," he says softly. She nods, eyes wide.

Stovell doesn't even attempt to fight back when Ward slams him to the ground, but the triumphant grin on his face makes Ward realize he's lost anyway.

Right on cue, Stovell's men swarm the room. Ward leaps into action, charging the men, silently praying that Simmons has seized the chance and escaped. And he fights, white hot blind rage driving him, pushing everything else out.

It is not enough.

It is over in a matter of seconds. He is knocked down and bound once more. He is dragged up into a kneeling position and his heart sinks when he sees Simmons beside him out of the corner of his eye. The nagging sense of failure is clawing at Ward's insides; guilt and rage are roaring so loudly that he can hardly see. He takes a deep breath to silence them all. He needs to be _here_ in this moment, for Jemma.

"Now, my dear," Stovell kneels down and pulls up Simmons' chin until she looks at him, "_You_ have a chance to save yourself. Out of the extreme goodness of my heart, I will give you a second chance to perfect my serum."

Jemma does not hesitate. Her tone does not waver. "No."

"No? I'll give you a minute to think it over. Choose wisely."

"I don't need a minute. My answer is _no_."

"Then it seems you have outlived your usefulness to me." He shakes his head, a mockery of a regretful expression on his face.

Stovell steps back, letting one of his men take his place. The man pulls his gun out of his holster and points it at Ward's head.

Grant twists his hands in the ropes to take Jemma's hand. She squeezes it tightly. "Shut your eyes," he advises gently. She swallows hard, but does. He keeps holding her hand tightly, but he turns to look Stovell dead in the eyes. He fixes the man with a glare; let him see the eyes of the man he's ordered killed, let him live with the memory of-

The door bursts open; he can hear yelling and gunshots. Ward turns quickly to his side, knocking Simmons over. He covers as much of her with his body as he can, as the bullets fly over them.

It only lasts a few seconds before he hears Skye's panicked "Grant? Jemma? Please be alive..."

"We're fine, Skye," he says, rolling over onto his back, keeping one hand on Jemma as she sits up.

"Fitz," Coulson says over the comm, "We got them. They're ok." He smiles down at both of them.

May slips around behind them, slicing through their bonds in quick, tense movements. For a second, she lets her fingers entwine with Ward's as she cuts the ties binding his hands, then she moves on to the rope around his ankles.

Skye's shadow falls over him and he instinctively glances up at her. She gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. "Grant-"

"I'm fine." He turns to Simmons. "Are you ok?" She's shaking and still looks scared, but she nods. May helps her gently to her feet.

"Come on, let's get you back to the Bus," May says softly, putting her arm around Jemma's shoulders. Simmons turns to look at him. He nods. As May turns to lead the young woman away, she glances back over at him. She holds eye contact until he nods at her. He's fine, he's grateful to her for taking care of Simmons, and they'll talk later. She seems to understand what he means, because she gives him a small nod in return.

"You had us worried," Coulson says, the relief plain in his voice, as he reaches down to give Grant a hand up.

Skye hugs him tightly the second he is standing. He pats her on the back.

"Skye," Coulson warns gently, "Give him some air, ok?"

She instantly releases him from her embrace, but keeps her arm around his shoulder. Coulson also slings an arm under Ward's shoulders. Together they lead him away from his prison. He doesn't actually need the physical support they're providing, but neither seem wiling to be the first to let go.

Once outside, he instinctively looks for Jemma. She is with May and he reminds himself that she is safe now. May won't let anything happen to her. She is sitting in the jeep, with May standing in front of her, hands still on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" May is asking Simmons.

She shakes her head. "No—but Ward—they—"

"I'm fine, Jemma, I promise."

She squeezes past May and runs for him. He has a second to disentangle himself from Coulson and Skye so he can catch her. She wraps her arms around him, holding on for dear life, and he holds her tightly in return.

"You're safe now," Ward whispers into her hair, "It's over."

* * *

Jemma doesn't even wait for May to stop the jeep before she runs for Fitz. He meets her halfway. He clings to her like she is the very air he breathes, like she is the moon and he is the tide.

"Don't ever do that again," he whispers fiercely, voice cracking.

Ward can't help the smile on his lips. FitzSimmons, back together; all's right in the world.

He stops to squeeze Jemma's shoulder and pat Fitz on the back, then heads for his quarters.

"Ward, where are you going? We need to get your wounds treated-" Skye begins, worriedly.

He shakes his head and continues his trek to his room. He just wants his bed. And a shower.

He is dimly aware of Skye protesting; he keeps walking anyway.

* * *

He stays in the shower until long after the water runs cold and still he feels unclean. Fear. Guilt. Loathing. Shame. Rage. His constant companions are here again tonight. No amount of water will wash them off.

* * *

He leaves the door ajar and May enters his room without knocking a minute later. She closes the door soundlessly behind her and crosses to stand next to him. Without saying a word, May takes stock of every wound. She does not touch him, not without invitation.

She holds up the first-aid kit. "May I?"

He nods.

She gently cleans his wounds and applies salve to the burns. Her hands are kind; her touch gentle and soothing. He closes his eyes. It's the safest he's felt in days.

And when she stops, he feels it like a physical loss. And, oh, how he aches. He never wants her to leave. He never wants her to stop touching him, the healing touch of her hands washing away what those men did to him.

He opens his eyes and she is looking at him, compassion and understanding in her eyes.

"Would you like me to stay?" she asks softly. He nods.

She wraps her arms gently around him, mindful of his bruises. She eases them both down on the bed. His body responds before his mind allows him to register the feeling of comfort. He collapses into her embrace, feeling the weight of having to stay alert and protect Jemma (and the weight of the guilt from the nights he couldn't) slide off his shoulders. The freedom he is feeling is dangerous. He didn't protect her. Without the guilt, he's not sure he can protect her next time.

_Next time._

The adrenaline shakes start, violent shudders that shake his entire body.

And the treacherous thoughts keep coming: the relief of not having to feel like the strong one, to have a few moments of respite from his role as the protector. To have someone holding _him_.

Melinda strokes his hair and whispers to him in Mandarin and his breathing slows and the adrenaline shakes _finally finally_ stop. And he allows himself to lay still in her arms, soaking up everything she will give him.

"Sleep," she whispers, brushing a tender kiss against his lips, "Let yourself sleep."

Her presence calms him and the steady rhythm of her heart beating lulls him to sleep.

* * *

He's not really shocked when the nightmares come. He's been expecting them. He wakes with his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat, and the blankets tangled around him. His flailing must have driven her off the bed because May's now standing on the floor and leaning over him.

"Ward. You're ok. You're safe now."

In one quick, jerky movement, he sits up on the side of the bed. He lowers his head and elbows to his knees and fights to slow his jagged breathing. May sits down beside him. She doesn't say anything, just rubs his back gently until his breathing steadies.

When his breathing returns to normal, he lies back down, and May slides back into the space next to him. She wraps an arm around his chest, her fingertips brushing his wrist, her chin resting on his shoulder.

He lies beside her, listening to her breathe as she falls back asleep.

He cannot fall back asleep; he seldom can on nights when his nightmares wake him. His body is aching from the beatings and tense from the trauma of the past several days. To distract himself, he focuses on trying to breathe in tandem with Melinda, willing his tired body to relax.

He hears the footsteps outside his door; they walk past, once, twice, and on the third time, he heads for the door. He is not surprised to see Jemma standing there.

"Jemma?"

"I'm sorry; it's stupid. I'll go-"

"Can't sleep?"

She sighs, visibly deflating as she answers, "No."

"That's normal." With a glance over his shoulder at May sleeping on his bed, he pulls the door closed carefully behind him, "Come on. I have something that may help."

She follows him down the hall to the kitchen. He sets her up on the counter and begins rummaging through the shelves looking for the ingredients he needs. Years of practice fuel his movements as he mixes milk and cocoa powder and brings them to a boil on the stovetop. Once it's finished, he pours them both a mug of hot chocolate. Jemma takes hers with a small smile.

"Is this your usual post-mission ritual?" Jemma asks, trying for levity, but the edge of anxiety still lingering in her voice belies her words.

"Something I did for my little brother, actually. It was something we did when we couldn't sleep or when we wanted something special to ourselves. And I suppose I've kept the habit over the years."

"Thank you," Jemma says sincerely, "It's kind of you to share it."

They drink in silence and he studies her for a while. Her hand wobbles every so often when she brings the mug to her lips. She has dark circles under her eyes. Someone usually so vibrant should not look so destroyed.

"You should take some Barton Leave."

She looks up from her mug with a quizzical look on her face. "A what?"

"Technically it's called Traumatic Recovery Leave, but since Agent Barton has used it more than any other agent in S.H.I.E.L.D's history, it got nicknamed after him. After a mission like this, it can be helpful to take some time off."

"Are you going to?"

He hesitates. It's always been best for him to keep going. "No."

She crosses her arms stubbornly—she's been spending too much time with Skye—"I'm not taking any leave unless you do."

"I don't have anywhere to go, Jemma."

"Then come with me."

He looks up at her in surprise.

"To my parents' house. It's been ages since I've been back to visit them; they'll be thrilled." The last few words are sad and he thinks back to her avoiding phone calls after a certain brush with death none of them talk about.

"I'm sure they will," he says kindly.

She smiles and reaches for his mug. He watches for a minute as she washes both of the mugs out with deliberate motions. The way she seems to be taking her time, obsessively rewashing them both several times over worries him.

"And you're sure your parents won't mind?" He asks, to distract her.

She waves a hand dismissively. "They never minded Fitz."

He's not sure that it's quite the same thing, but she needs this. And he doesn't doubt that she'll stick to her guns and not go unless he does. "Then I'll go. I'll have Coulson draw up the paperwork in the morning."

She sets the mugs on the sideboard to dry and turns to smile at him.

"It'll be lovely. They will _love_ you."

He's not sure about that, either.

"Come on. Time for bed."

She freezes, panic evident in her features.

"You don't have to sleep alone," he promises, reaching for her hand, "We can sleep in the Common Room."

The relief on her face breaks his heart a little.

He shepherds her down the hall to the common area, stopping only to grab them some blankets. He dims the light and pulls all of the pillows to one couch. He sits down and pats the spot beside him. Jemma curls up against him and he pulls the blankets over both of them.

* * *

He wakes to Skye and Fitz debating about waking them up.

Before he can say anything, Jemma sits up. "We're awake, Fitz."

"Ah, good, good."

"We made breakfast for you!" Skye pipes up, cheerfully.

"That's sweet. Thank you," Jemma says with a smile.

Ward tries to mimic Jemma's smile. Skye is a _terrible_ cook and Fitz is a _dangerous_ one. The two together in the kitchen is always a worrisome prospect.

He must not be doing a good job of covering his worry, because Fitz adds, "Well, Coulson helped."

"We made all your favorites, Jemma. You'll love it..." He turned to Ward, "We weren't really sure of your favorites, so we made a little of everything."

"That's fine, Fitz. Thanks, guys."

When they enter the kitchen, May is putting the finishing touches on setting the table. She glances up at him. "Sleep well?"

He starts to apologize for ditching her in the middle of the night without warning, but she silences him with a quick glance at the others.

"As long as you slept well," she says softly.

* * *

He knocks on Coulson's office door. "Sir?"

"Come in, Ward."

He holds out his and Simmons' applications for Barton Leave. "I just need your signature."

Coulson glances down at the paperwork heading.

"You're taking some leave? Good. You both could use it."

Ward just nods, distractedly. He wants to get out of here. It's not the room or Coulson; it's standing still.

"How's she doing?"

"It's hard on her. But she's stronger—more resilient—than we give her credit for."

"And how are you doing?"

"I'm resilient, too."

"I know you are," Coulson says quietly. "Take care of yourself, too, Ward."

"Yes, Sir."

He can feel Coulson's eyes on him all the way out the door.

* * *

Skye hovers over his shoulder while he packs.

"I don't think you need to bring towels. Her parents like, _literally_, live in a mansion."

He ignores her and continues rolling the towels as small as they go, before settling them snugly in his duffel bag. He turns to pull a handful of shirts out of his dresser and bumps into Skye. Again. His quarters are cramped as it is and Skye seems to be afraid to be more than six inches away from him.

The third time he bumps into her, he puts both hands on her shoulders and gently moves her out of his way. "We'll only be gone for a week. You won't even miss us."

Skye gasps. "Don't say that!"

There are tears in her eyes and he feels bad about making her cry. He didn't mean to.

"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant-"

"Just promise you'll come back this time, ok?"

"We will."

"Pinky swear," Skye says, holding up her hand.

"What?"

"Stop pestering Ward and come help me make dinner," May interrupts from the doorway, her voice an odd combination of fond exasperation and gentle warning. She's already managed to wrangle Fitz from Simmons' room; Grant has no idea how.

Skye pouts, but heads for the door. She glances back at him, hand lingering on the door frame.

"I'm holding you to it, mister."

* * *

Once he's finished packing (and unpacking and repacking, because it wasn't efficient enough the first time), he heads for the kitchen in search of dinner. He follows the familiar cadences that are Skye (earnest and loud), Fitz (slightly high-pitched, but die-hard sincere), and May (a low rumble that he can barely make out). He stops just outside the door when it becomes apparent they're talking about him and Simmons.

"Can't we do something to help them?" Skye is asking in a desperate tone.

There's a long pause in which he imagines May is deliberating over the best answer and Skye is probably getting frustrated.

"They need your support. Right now, that means giving them time and space. I know it's hard, but you have to be patient with them. Fitz, if you don't stop eating the edamame, we won't have enough for dinner."

"But we just got them back," Fitz says with a mouth half-full. There's another pause in which Ward is pretty sure May is silently admonishing him to finish chewing before talking, then Fitz begins again. "We just got them back. Why do they have to leave? Can't we take care of them here?"

"If we get another mission, we have to go. It's best if Ward and Simmons aren't back in the field. Not until they're ready."

But he _is_ ready. The field has always been the best place for him.

He steps forward, not quite sure what he's planning to do, but before he can decide, Coulson and Simmons come around the corner, and the moment is lost.

* * *

Jemma's house, as it turns out, _is_ _literally _amansion, as Skye had said. Ward stands with Jemma in front of the slightly-imposing white steps leading up to her definitely imposing front door.

Jemma takes a deep breath, "I may not have been _explicit_ when telling my parents that I was coming."

She starts up the steps without looking at him. "As far as they know, SHIELD _strongly recommends_ vacation time once you enter the field. Keeps you fresh." Looking slightly nauseous, but determined, she adds, "It's not a lie. Technically."

"It's not," he agrees, in an encouraging tone.

* * *

Jemma's mom had said dinner was at six, but it's five after and Jemma still hasn't come out of her room.

He knocks on the door separating their rooms. "Jemma? Can I come in?"

When he receives a reply in the affirmative, he pulls open the door and steps into her bedroom. Her room is uncharacteristically messy, with clothes spread out on her bed and the floor and makeup strewn over the dresser.

"Do I look ok?"

This was not the question he was expecting. "Umm, yes?"

"No, I mean," she says in frustration, smoothing down her skirt, "My parents know me so well. They'll see me and they'll _know_. They'll see it in my face or hear it in my voice, or-"

"You look fine—like you normally do—I mean, you look like—like you always do..."

She laughs at his flustered reply. "Oh, is that the time already? We need to get to dinner!"

He's relieved by the subject change. He gives her a mock bow. "After you."

She giggles and it's so good to see her happy again.

* * *

It's easy to see where Simmons gets her friendly nature from; Her parents are doing their best to make Ward feel welcome.

"And what do you do for S.H.I.E.L.D, Grant?" Jemma's father asks.

"Uhh," Ward glances at Jemma. He's thinking his actual job description might be too scary, so he settles for a vague, "I'm a field agent," and hopes they don't ask questions.

They don't. Jemma shoots him a grateful smile.

* * *

Grant's options for exercise were limited here. A fact with which Simmons had little sympathy. ("You're injured, Ward. You should be taking it easy anyway. And, no, not all proper homes have a gym.") Easy, yes, but atrophy, no. He starts a second lap around the gardens, slowing as he passes the greenhouse. He hasn't seen Simmons all morning, which is making him vaguely uneasy. The greenhouse seems like a place she might be; it wouldn't hurt to check. He detours off the main path and heads for the door.

He slides open the door to the greenhouse. It's massive, so it takes him a minute to search the building. His hutch turns out to be correct, though, and he finds her tucked away in a corner, half-hidden by shelves and some very tall plants. She's standing with her back to him, watering some plants.

"Morning, Simmons."

She jumps, water sloshing in a graceless arc across the table.

He winces, reaching a hand out to steady her. "I'm sorry, Jemma. I didn't mean to scare you, I apologize."

"No, I was just...lost in my thoughts."

He leans against the table. "How are you doing?"

She hesitates for so long he's afraid she's not going to answer. She does, though, fidgeting as she talks. "I thought it would be different when I got back to the Bus. It wasn't. I thought it would be different when I got home. It's not. How do you do this, Grant? How do you _almost die _and then go on living like everything is normal?"

She shouldn't ask him. He's been in the shadow of almost dieing for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like out of it.

"You don't. At least someone like you doesn't. I'm screwed up, Jemma," he laughs bitterly, "This _is_ normal for me."

She turns away from him quickly. He wishes he could take it back.

For the longest time, there is nothing but the pounding of his heart in his ears and the struggle to breathe evenly again. Then Jemma turns back to him again, saying softly, "I just want to not be afraid anymore."

"You were brave, Jemma. You were so brave."

"I didn't feel brave."

"It's ok to be scared. That's normal. And it goes away eventually, I promise."

She sighs. "I wish it would hurry."

There's another silence and then, so quietly that he has to strain to hear her, she says, "I can't even go back in my lab."

He frowns.

"Every time I think about it, I think of something I love being used in such a horrible way. You were tortured so that I would use my skills—that I have always used to help people—to help kill people. You were hurt because of what I know and what I can do. And I—I just can't go back in my lab. I keep hearing—and seeing..."

Him being tortured. Of course. Those memories won't be easy to erase. He would know. He glances around at the walls of the greenhouse and is struck with an idea.

"Is this yours?" He waves a hand to indicate the building and all the plants it contains.

Jemma picks up the watering can. "Yes. My parents had it built for me when it became clear where my interests lay. I was seven? At the time." She laughs. "I would spend hours out here. It was my favorite place."

"What did you do out here?"

"Oh, memorized plants. Studied genetics. Cross-bred new species. Wrote theses on plant development. You know, the usual."

"The usual, right. Simmons, you were seven."

She laughs; it's rather an infectious laugh and he laughs, too.

"Well, if it helps, they were _terrible_ papers. I think I still have them around here somewhere; I can show you..."

He watches as she rifles through some filing cabinets and pulls out a dusty stack of composition notebooks, the like of which Grant hasn't seen since middle school, with a delighted squeal. She hands him the top half of the stack. He blows dust off the covers and opens the first one. The pages are filled with row after row of a childish version of the pretty, meticulous handwriting he is familiar with.

"See?" Jemma sighs, "Ugh, so embarrassing. The research is so primitive; the conclusions only half-formed."

"If you say so."

She frowns down at the notebook she's holding. "This one actually shows promise. I was so close-"

She then proceeds to rattle off a string of very-long, very science-y, very complicated words. Ward just tries focusing on her intently and nodding when she pauses for breath—which is not often.

She whirls around and begins clearing the table in frenzied motions, setting items haphazardly on the floor and shelves. He has no idea what she's doing, but she looks so _determined_. He watches her out of the corner of his eye with concern, while he carefully stabilizes the items she's displaced.

The same determination is shining in her eyes when she turns to face him, hands gripping the table behind her for support.

"I am going to finish this experiment. I very nearly reached the appropriate conclusion as a child. I don't believe I'll have any trouble proving my hypothesis now. I know so much more. Care to help?"

He smiles at her. Attempting science again will be good for her and if she can get it back here, perhaps she won't be afraid to return to her lab when they leave.

"Well, I'm no Fitz, but I'll try."

"Nobody's Fitz. But you'll do. I'll make a scientist of you yet!"

Thirty minutes later, he doubts that very much, and he thinks Simmons does, too.

He settles for following her increasingly simplified instructions, "Pass me the plant in the red pot." "Hand me that instrument. No, _that_ instrument." "Read me my notes again—that's, that's not how you pronounce that."

* * *

The days fall quickly into routine: he runs the gravel trails of her family's massive gardens in the mornings and in the afternoons he's Jemma's lab assistant, and the nights grow longer and longer.

* * *

It's the last night of leave and Ward is in bed, tired, but not really ready to sleep. The door that leads from this room to Simmons' slides open.

"Ward?" Jemma whispers, "Are you awake?"

He reaches over to turn on the light. "Are you ok? Did you have another nightmare?" She hasn't needed him to sleep beside her since their first night here; he had assumed they'd gone away, or at least become manageable. He hopes he wasn't wrong.

"No, it's not that. It's just—may I come in?"

"Of course."

Jemma steps out of the shadows. He studies her; she doesn't look distressed, more...thoughtful.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

He's instantly nervous; he honestly has no idea what she's talking about. She sits down on the edge of the bed, tucking her legs underneath her gracefully. He sits up a little straighter and waits.

"I don't think you're screwed up. I mean, _of course_ you are, traumatic childhood and all, but I don't think of you like that. I think you're brave and kind and safe. I just wanted you to know that, because I don't think that you do."

_Brave. Kind. Safe._ So opposite of rage, guilt, and shame. Her words are words he doesn't usually associate with himself. Words people don't usually say about him. He can barely look up at her, but when he does he is met with a radiant smile. Then she hops off the bed and as suddenly as she had come, she was gone, leaving Ward to his thoughts.

* * *

A knock on the door on their last day interrupts Ward's packing. "Come in."

He was expecting Simmons, so he's startled to see her mother instead standing in the doorway.

"Dr. Simmons. Uh, what can I do for you?"

"Elizabeth, please."

"Elizabeth. Are you looking for Jemma?"

"No, I wanted to speak with you, actually, if you have the time."

"Of course."

She walks into the room and comes to a stop at the end of the bed.

"Jemma has always been the brightest star in my universe and I've been glad to see her be a star in S.H.I.E.L.D's universe, as well. Her father and I have always supported her love of the sciences and when it took her there, we supported her, too. However, I was _uncertain_, to say the least, when she told us she was leaving the lab and working in the field. I told her that I only wanted the best for her, and if that made her happy—well, she didn't need my permission—but I worried that her skills would atrophy away from a lab, and I did tell her that. She can read through the lines, though, and all she heard was how scared I was. I know she doesn't want us to worry, but I know my daughter, and I know she's not always honest about how much danger she's been in. I _do_ know that someone has to be keeping her safe, and watching you this week, I know that's you. So, thank you. Thank you so much for everything you've done for my baby girl."

There are tears in Elizabeth's eyes. Ward swallows hard.

He doesn't deserve the thanks she's lavishing, but still, it's almost the nicest thing he can ever remember anyone saying to him.

"You have an amazing daughter, Elizabeth. She is one of the bravest, kindest people I have ever met, and certainly the smartest."

Elizabeth laughs at that. "She is that."

"Mum?" Simmons sticks her head in the room. "Ah, there you are." She looks at both of them suspiciously. "What are you two up to?" She groans, "Oh, _Mum_, you're not telling embarrassing baby stories again, are you? After Fitz, you promised—whatever she told you, it's not true, I promise."

"Of course not, Dear."

"Embarrassing baby stories? Now this I have to hear."

Jemma groans.

* * *

Their leave is over; the flight taking them to rendezvous with their team leaves in forty-five minutes.

It's time to go.

The door to her room is halfway open. Grant pushes it the rest of the way open and steps into the room.

"Jemma?"

She is standing in the middle of her room, one hand lingering on her suitcase, looking around. She takes a deep breath.

"Ready to go?"

"Yes," she smiles, "Let's go home."

_Home._

He likes the sound of that. He takes her hand and her suitcase and, together, they head home.

-The End-


End file.
